


one blue lamentation

by Dresupi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Character Death, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 19:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dresupi/pseuds/Dresupi
Summary: They've both lost their spouses, which was the basis for their correspondence.But letters led to glasses of wine and those to snogging.Hermione knows it's bad judgment, but why does she feel sogood? Why does it feel like the first time she's lived in a year? Why doesn't she want to stop?Mind the tags.





	one blue lamentation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myloveiamthespeedofsound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myloveiamthespeedofsound/gifts).



> As prompted by downrightfierce/myloveiamthespeedofsound: 
> 
> Because I live for angst apparently - both our spouses passed suddenly and we found common ground in that, it's been a while and we're claiming we're just friends but oops we might have made out after a bottle of red and now what?

Hermione’s head pounded like a runaway drummer as she softly padded through her living room.

It was filled with smiling photographs of her family. The children playing outdoors. Happily frantic photos from King’s Cross at platform nine and three-quarters. Hers and Ron’s wedding day.

She turned away, her eyes stinging. She couldn’t look at that one without tearing up. Even now.

A green scarf was still on the coat tree by the fireplace. She knew if she sniffed it, it would smell of green tea and licorice. It would smell like Draco. Her throbbing head was the only thing that kept her from burying her face in the soft wool blend.

Nothing in this house smelled like Ron anymore. She hadn’t even noticed when his scent had gone, but it had. Gradually. She wasn’t sure what she thought about that. It didn’t make her eyes burn and tear up as the wedding photos did. It mostly just made her realize how bloody long it had been since she’d gone out.

A year. It had been a year. And technically, Draco’s visit the night before didn’t count. Because she still hadn’t gone out.

She’d gone an entire year going between work and home. Home and work. Down to the train station twice. Once to pick up the children and once to drop them off for school. The first time doing either on her own. The first time without Ron.

That past September felt as if it were ages ago. Harry and Ginny had tried to help, but nothing they did seemed to assuage the pain she felt that she was here and Ron wasn’t.

Draco had been there too on September first. Alone, as well. She’d heard the news through Harry. Astoria had succumbed to the illness she’d had her entire life. 

Draco had appeared stoic, but she could tell his shoulders were a little too square. His smile a little too fixed. He held his son a little too tightly as Scorpio squirmed to be let go and to run to the train as well. He’d caught her gaze only briefly, but lingered until she turned away.

It was three days later that she’d received the first owl.

On Malfoy header, penned with exquisitely smooth green ink. An apology took up most of the space. An apology for even deigning to contact her while she was in mourning, but… was there any chance they could meet for drinks? For lunch? For a coffee? He needed someone to talk to. And none of his friends seemed to understand.

She’d refused, but the owls kept coming.

After that first one, the ice had been broken. He spoke of his grief without preamble. Asking her if she still felt Ron’s presence? If it had stopped.  _ When _ it had.

She asked him if photographs brought him to tears. If it was painful to look at Scorpio sometimes. If there were things he did that reeked too heavily of Astoria.

She both wanted him to say no and yes. She didn’t want anyone feeling this same pain, but she also didn’t want to be alone.

Hugo had Ron’s laugh. And damnit. It hurt to hear it.

She hadn’t even spent much time in the company of her best friend for fear of seeing the same sparkle in her eyes that Ron used to have.

Around two months into their correspondence, Draco asked if it was better to watch one’s spouse waste away for years and years or to lose them all at once as Hermione had. That he’d never known an Astoria who wasn’t ill. No one did. If there was an afterlife where he’d meet her once more, he’d never recognize her. Was that better than kissing Ron goodbye one morning and identifying his corpse that afternoon? Was it worse? Did it matter?

Hermione didn’t have an answer for him. She knew neither was fair. But instead of telling him that, she invited him over for wine.

Her eyes clouded as she stared at the glasses where they sat on the coffee table.  Both empty. The bottle between them empty as well. She’d thought she herself would feel empty too.

But she felt as if she were packed to the brim with butterflies. Bursting to get out.

Her cheeks burned as she reached down to scoop up both glasses in one hand, the bottle in the other.

She  _ could _ magic it all away, but the act of cleaning felt therapeutic. It was how she’d done it when Ron passed. She’d slowly, methodically packed his things, keeping a few items for herself, but the rest was sent off for donations.

Now that she thought about it, that was likely when her late husband’s scent had started to leave the home they’d once shared.

The home she now padded through alone unless it was summer and Hugo and Rose were around to liven it up.

Between the months of September and June, it was only her.

Until last night.

She’d no sooner sent the owl inviting him than he was flooing into her living room. Hanging his coat and scarf on the coat tree and sitting upon her sofa like a cat. Crookshanks had twittered at him, rubbing around his ankles before tottering off to his favorite napping place.

Draco was formally dressed. Robes still on from work, most likely, whereas Hermione was in her usual weekend attire. Flannel pyjama bottoms and one of Ron’s old Quidditch t-shirts. Draco hadn’t batted an eye, he’d simply produced a bottle of some very fine red wine, prompting Hermione to summon the glasses.

Although she’d waited until well after her second glass to act upon it, the desire to kiss Draco Malfoy had consumed her from the second he’d arrived.

He always looked put upon, as if he was doing you a favor by deigning to grace you with his presence. This wasn’t like that. She’d wager that he’d no sooner read her invitation than he’d set off for the floo.

He didn’t look bored. Or boastful or swaggering.

He looked…

Hopeful.

And she’d wanted to kiss him right then and there.

The urge surprised her. She’d never wanted to kiss Malfoy in her entire life.

But in that minute, she wanted those dextrous fingers tangled in her hair. She wanted his lips on hers because he was the only one in her life who could truly understand her melancholy. And why that was being coded as arousal by her very confused mind wasn’t her concern.

Still, it took her two and a half glasses to go for it.

And it was sloppy.

She leaned over, her lips finding his and tasting the wine lingering there. He didn’t move for a long moment and she dreaded pulling back, having to look him in the face and own up to what she’d done.

But then, he sent both of their glasses to the table and cupped her face in his hands, deepening the kiss and laying her back on the sofa cushions.

His tongue delved into her mouth, flicking around and driving her mad.  Her mind went absolutely blank and for the first time in a year, she wasn’t comparing this to her life before Ron had been killed. She wasn’t drawing any comparison, because there wasn’t one.

This was new. It was exciting. 

And she didn’t want it to stop.

But stop, they did. She wasn’t sure when the snogging had started, but it ended around one in the morning with her legs wrapped around Draco’s hips as he ground helplessly against her warmth. They were both still clothed, but very mussed.

He’d broken off the kiss softly. “Granger… unless we want to take this further, we should stop now.”

She’d gulped and nodded. And he’d sat up, downing the rest of his glass and standing to take his coat. He’d lingered at the fireplace, sending a dark, longing look her way. “Next time, you can come to mine.”

And he’d gone.

She was here now, cleaning out their glasses and blinking back a hangover and wondering what in the bloody hell she’d been thinking.

What she was  _ still _ thinking.

Because she had to remind herself that it was poor judgment. Because it felt so very good.

A rapping at the kitchen window brought her from her thoughts. She recognized Draco’s owl, a message for her tied to its leg.

She fed the owl a treat as she read through the short missive.

 

> _ H, _
> 
> _ I seem to have misplaced my scarf. Why don’t you bring it ‘round this evening and stay for dinner? Arrangements can be made in the event you’d like to stay later.  _
> 
> _ D _

 

She frowned, wondering exactly what tone he meant for that last bit, nearly missing the postscript at the bottom of the letter.

 

> _ P.S Stop overanalyzing, Granger. If I hadn’t wanted to kiss you, I wouldn’t have. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, so I hope to see you this evening. _

 

Her cheeks reddened considerably and she quickly penned an acceptance on the opposite side of the paper, sending it back with the owl.

It wasn’t poor judgment. Her past year of self-inflicted hermitism had been. Besides, if there was any judgment to be had, it wasn’t going to come from Draco. Nor from Hermione for that matter. And theirs was the only verdict that mattered.


End file.
